


The Path We Walk Together

by thenerdyindividual



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt is Jaskier's Body Guard, Kings & Queens, M/M, Monsters, Music, On the Run, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26414413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenerdyindividual/pseuds/thenerdyindividual
Summary: Geralt is ambushed by a desperate bard seeking safe passage through enemy territory. Against his better judgement, Geralt agrees to be his bodyguard. Life on the run brings people closer together, and Jaskier and Geralt are no different.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 60
Kudos: 274
Collections: Witcher Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my bestie anarchycox for beta-ing this for me. She seriously saved you guys from so many typos.

Geralt makes his way through the town, and finds himself in a surprisingly good mood. His last contract had paid exceedingly well, he’s meant to talk about a contract with a king which means he can overcharge without feeling guilty, and the curiosity to fear ratio of the townspeople is decidedly in his favor for once. Even Roach seems to have a bit of jauntiness to her step. 

The stalls around him are manned by artisans hawking their wares. One young woman offers him a shy smile and an apple slice for Roach. He turns down both offers but mentally marks the stall on his map. If the talks with the king go well, he might have time to stop by later. 

He’s passing a small alley between two buildings and the stalls set up out front when it happens. A hand shoots out of the darkness, grabbing him firmly by the wrist, and Geralt actually startles. His reaction is hardly noticeable to anyone else but he knows he flinched. 

In his life there has only ever been one person who was able to catch him unawares, and that was a sorcerer who had used magic to hide himself from Geralt’s senses. So that means the person holding his wrist, so tightly their fingers have gone white with the effort, is either a sorcerer or their decision to grab Geralt was just as much of a surprise to them. 

“Witcher,” a voice says and Geralt assumes it belongs to the hand, “Please. I need your help.”

Geralt steps into the alley, and comes face to face with a young man. He’s probably in his late twenties, dark hair, blue eyes, and his clothes are far too fine quality for the state they're in. A royal blue doublet, and trousers with intricate embroidery in green thread but it’s dirty. Literally. Geralt can smell the dirt. There’s a large tear in one sleeve, and one leg of the trousers is missing the knee. 

“What do you want?” Geralt grunts, good mood suddenly going sour around the edges. 

“I need your protection.” The man says and clutches Geralt’s wrist even harder. 

“I’m not a bodyguard.” Geralt responds and makes to leave, but the man refuses to let go of his wrist. 

“You don’t understand. People are trying to kill me.”

“What people?”

“Well…” here the man hesitates, “the king mostly.”

“The king.” Geralt repeats. 

“Yes. I was performing for his name day celebration last week and I made a joke. Next thing I know I’m being thrown in the dungeon awaiting execution! I only escaped thanks to the help of a rather lovely serving girl who took pity—“

“You insulted him.” Geralt surmises

“ _Lightly_ insulted him,” the man qualifies, “Besides he was harassing a serving girl, and honestly to execute a man for doing his bardly duty is just unjust.”

“I don’t get involved in politics.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m simply asking you to get me out of the borders of this kingdom and the five allies. Then we can go our separate ways.” the bard promises, “In fact if we are as sneaky as Witchers are rumored to be then you might not even have to hurt any king’s guard. You’ll just be protecting me from bandits and wild animals.”

Geralt knows he’s going to regret asking this, but the bard seems truly in the shit, “Why the five allies?”

“The king might have distributed flyers with my visage drawn on them to his allies so that if I tried to flee to their kingdoms I’d be caught.” The bard responds and smiles self-deprecatingly in a way that’s probably meant to be charming. 

“That could take months. No.”

“Oh come on. Please? Look, I’ll even pay you half now,” the bard says and fumbles for his coin purse. After several moments of searching which Geralt can’t tear himself from watching (it’s almost like watching a fire) the bard hisses, “Shit.”

“Bad luck?”

“They took my coin when they threw me in the dungeons. And they took my lute! Gods damn them all they took my fucking lute!”

Anger flares in the bard’s eyes, and Geralt can smell it in the air. For a second he thinks the bard might turn and storm the castle himself to get his lute back. 

“I’ll pay you double if you can get my lute back.”

“It’s a lute.”

“It is a very fine lute I’ll have you know,” the bard says indignantly, “It was crafted by the finest woodworker on the continent, and it took me three years saving up in order to buy it.” 

Geralt grunts and turns to leave, yanking his wrist from the bard’s grasp. But the bard, determined not to be ignored, positions himself between Geralt and the opening of the alley. 

“How are you going to pay me without coin?” Geralt asks. 

“Just ask for the exact amount of coin that was in my purse, and a lute as your payment for killing the selkimore.”

“How did you know I was going to talk to the king about that?”

“Honestly it isn’t that difficult to put together. Witchers kill things, the selkimore has been plaguing the kingdom for months, and no one in the town has enough coin to pay you for it themselves.”

“The king will be suspicious if I ask for a lute.”

“He won’t,” the bard responds easily, “He’s really a bit thick otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

Geralt isn’t sure if the bard means still being in the kingdom a week after escaping the dungeons, or if he’s referring to making the insult. Either way, he wants no part of it. He opens his mouth to tell the bard to fuck off but what comes out is, “Fine.”

The bard smiles triumphantly, eyes practically glowing with delight, “You’ll do it?”

Geralt grunts in response. Fucking bard pulling him into this nonsense.

“Right. Don’t jinx it.” The bard says, “If we are going to be travelling together I think we should know each other’s names.”

Geralt stares back at the bard blankly. What one has to do with the other is a mystery. When it becomes clear that he’s not going to respond, the bard rolls his eyes dramatically.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz at your service,” the bard says, “Or Jaskier as my friends call me.”

“We’re not friends.”

“Well I highly suggest we become friends rather quickly if we want to be sneaking around together. Your name, dear witcher?”

“Geralt.”

“Was that so hard?” Jaskier asks with another bright smile.

Geralt considers killing him and taking his body to the king.

“How should we do this? Surprisingly I’ve never been a fugitive from the law before. Oh this will make an excellent song. The persecuted bard. I can--”

“Focus.” Geralt grunts.

“Right. Yes. Of course.”

“Stay out of trouble for the next two days,” Geralt instructs, “Meet me at dawn on the third day at the city gates.”

“And then?” Jaskier prompts.

“We leave.”

“Just like that?”

Geralt glares at him, and Jaskier holds his hands up in surrender. At least he has enough sense not to piss off a witcher, though Geralt bets he doesn’t have enough sense to not be entirely irritating.

“At least let me describe my lute.”

Geralt is subjected to a solid two minutes of description of the lute. Only about thirty seconds of it actually help him.

He leaves Jaskier behind and continues his way to the castle like nothing out of the ordinary just happened. He hasn’t been to Kaer Morhen in years but he can feel Vesemir staring at him disapprovingly. Geralt mentally flips ghost-Vesemir the bird. He’s not getting involved in politics. Much. And he is doing it more for the coin than anything.

He hands Roach off to a stable hand, and then a servant escorts him to the King’s chambers. His chambers are scrubbed clean, but the sour tang of sweat permeates the air. The whole castle reeks of fear, and for once Geralt can’t tell if the fear is directed at him or the man sitting in front of him.

“Witcher!” The king booms, sloshing some wine out of his goblet and into his scraggly beard, “We are glad of your help.”

The negotiations take ages. As all kings are, he is loathe to split with his money. In the end, Geralt does end up being promised slightly more than Jaskier lost. The king shakes his hand like they’re good friends, and it’s all Geralt can do not to let his lips curl. The king’s palms are distinctly sticky.

“I want one last thing.” Geralt says, already mentally kicking himself for agreeing to bring back the fucking lute.

“I thought we had agreed on a price, Witcher.” The King says menacingly.

It doesn’t bother Geralt one bit, but the servant who had been tidying things suddenly vacates the room saying something about fetching water.

“We did. I’m not aksing for more coin. I need a lute.”

“A lute?”

“Pissed off a whore with delusions of becoming a bard.” Geralt says by way of explanation.

The transformation is instantaneous. The King’s face creases up in a wide smile and he bursts into laughter. “I suppose she threatened to castrate you?”

Geralt just grunts. This sends another bout of helpless laughter through the king.

“Well in deference to your balls, I’ll give you a lute. We took one from a pissant bard not a week ago. Haven’t had the chance to burn it yet.”

Jaskier is right. The king is a bit thick. 

Geralt leaves the castle with a much heavier coin purse than when he started, and Jaskier’s lute. There’s no doubt about it. It matches Jaskier’s description perfectly, and Geralt can still get faint whiffs of Jaskier coming from it.

Servant’s scramble out of his path as he strides down the corridor. No doubt part of it has to do with a huge menacing man in all black looking very determined, but Geralt has a sneaking suspicion that being a friend of the king makes you no other. 

A young man almost literally leaps out of Geralt’s way, crashing clumsily into a bit of statuary in an alcove. He curses softly, and is rubbing his shoulder as Geralt walks by. His uniform is slightly crumpled. Geralt just ignores him, but the uniform catches his attention.

He turns on his heel, and it takes two steps to return to the servant still backed into the alcove.

“How much for the uniform?” Geralt asks.

“What?” the servant asks, face going pale under his tan.

“Uniform. How much?” Geralt repeats.

“I’m not sure it will fit you, sir Witcher.”

Geralt just fixes the young man with an unimpressed look. Finally the young man stutters out a price. Far too much probably, but Geralt can’t begrudge him trying to make a little money out of it.

The young man disappears down a flight of stairs towards the servants’ quarters. He returns several moments later with his spare uniform. Geralt hands him the promised coin, and continues on his way.

He thanks the stable master for his good care of Roach. Then he straps the lute to Roach’s side, and rides out to go kill the selkimore.

*

Jaskier paces anxiously just out of sight in between the main wall, and the abandoned guard hut. Rumors about it being haunted still circulates among the townsfolk. It had been abandoned long before the current king came into power, and he decided it wasn’t worth hiring someone to rid the structure of the spirit. Too much cost involved both in Witcher costs, and rebuilding efforts.

That suits Jaskier just fine.

He peeks out from the corner of the building, glancing up the high road. Still no sign of Geralt. He chews on his thumb nail. Geralt didn’t seem the type to take money, and run. It goes against all moral codes.

He ducks back behind the guard hut again. He’s just about to call it, and say Geralt either abandoned him or died, when a cough comes from his right. Jaskier heaves a sigh of relief.

Geralt is standing there in all his glory. Beautiful chestnut mare, swords strapped to his back, dark clothes covered head to toe in selkimore guts.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, and hops to his feet, and then he spies the thing strapped to the mare’s side, “Is that my lute?”

“I was promised double.” Geralt says matter of factly. 

Jaskier rushes over to the mare, ignoring the way she huffs and paws the ground with her hoof at his sudden movement. He runs his fingers over the solid wood, cataloging the minor scratches picked up from a year of traveling. It doesn’t seem any worse for wear for having been in possession of a king and then a witcher. 

To his surprise, he feels tears welling in his eyes. He’d been so sure he’d never see it again. 

“Thank you, Geralt.” Jaskier says, and without thinking turns to envelop Geralt in a hug.

Geralt takes a surprised step back, as though expecting Jaskier to stab him. That is what finally drags Jaskier to a stop. Then he finally takes in the state of Geralt’s hair and clothes. Thick black guts cling to every surface. Only his golden eyes are visible through the muck.

“Right… better not,” Jaskier says awkwardly, “Shall we go then?”

Geralt reaches into a saddlebag, and tosses a bundle of fabric at Jaskier. Jaskier fumbles, but manages to catch everything before it hits the ground. He recognizes the uniform of the palace servants.

“What’s this for?”

“Get changed.”

“While it was very kind of you to think of replacing my current garments, these are hardly going to be flattering.” Jaskier points out. Really, who dresses people head to toe in mustard yellow.

Geralt closes his eyes, and tilts his face skyward as though he’s counting down in order to maintain his patience, “It’s not supposed to be flattering. It’s a disguise.”

“Oh,” well that makes far more sense, “Right. Okay turn around.”

“Why?”

“So I can get changed?”

Geralt frowns at him as though Jaskier is being the difficult one, “Why not get changed in there?” he nods towards the hut.

“It’s haunted,” Jaskier snaps, “Now if you want me in disguise, turn your back.”

Geralt grunts, but at least he does as asked. It’s not a bad view from the back, even with guts. All broad shoulders, and thighs to die for. Jaskier disrobes, and after several embarrassing moments of hopping about as he tries to get the trousers over his ass, he gets dressed. He stores his old clothes in one of the saddle bags.

He reaches up to give her a pat on the neck, but snatches his hand back when Geralt grunts, “Don’t touch Roach.”

“Who names their horse, Roach?”

Geralt just ignores him, and mounts Roach. He leads the way back out to the high road, and rides directly for the main gate. 

Jaskier’s hands go clammy. He tries to wipe them surreptitiously on the trousers. Geralt seems utterly unbothered by them riding straight for someone who could easily throw Jaskier back in the dungeons. He tries not to look worried despite his heart hammering so hard he can feel it in his head.

“Halt, Witcher.” the guard says.

Geralt looks down at him from Roach’s back. “What?”

“I’m afraid I have to ask where you intend to go with one of the palace servants.” the guard says.

“He’s taking me to his village. Something’s been taking the livestock.”

“And I assume you have a letter of permission from the head servant?”

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. There’s no way Geralt can get them out of this.

“Don’t need it. Won’t interfere with his duties.”

The guard looks like he wants to argue, but one particularly stern glower from Geralt and he backs off. Then Roach is moving again, and miraculously, they walk free of the city.


	2. Chapter 2

The pub is almost over-warm. It is jam packed with bards travelling into the city for the annual Suvistead Celebration Competition. The prize is nearly a thousand crowns, and on top of it the winner gets to be the personal performer to the King for a week.

Jaskier is among them, lute strapped tightly to his back. The last thing he needs is it going missing. Turns out the life of a travelling bard is rather difficult when your family has cut you off for trying to be a travelling bard. Something about youthful fixations needing to come to an end.

Fuck them.

He squeezes through a pack of young men having an almost literal dick measuring contest, and sidles up to the bar. It is by far better than any of the other ones he’s stopped in along the way. The bar isn’t sticky, for one, and the golden wood is free of any suspicions stains. Jaskier is never sure if he would prefer said stains to be from shirk or blood. Either option is awful.

A young barmaid approaches after setting down a pair of flagons in front of a couple of customers that don’t even bother to offer their thanks despite the way she’s sweating from having to run the place by herself. Jaskier snorts derisively, and then leans forward slightly in order to catch her attention.

“What can I get you?” she asks, wiping her hands on an apron growing grimier by the second.

“Cheapest drink you have, please.” Jaskier says.

The barmaid smiles a little, just a little uptick of her mouth, and then she bustles off. Politeness gets you far in life. She returns a moment later, and sets a cup barely bigger than Jaskier’s hand in front of him. The beer tastes like piss, but Jaskier grits his teeth in a smile, and starts to hand over her coin. She waves it away.

“On the house for not being an asshole,” she says, “and because you look like shit.”

“I’m not sure whether to be offended or grateful.”

She shrugs, and starts gathering her golden hair into a knot on the top of her head, “A little of both.”

“Perhaps a bit more grateful, to be treated so well by a woman as beautiful as yourself.” Jaskier winks.

“Keep that up, and I’ll make you pay double.”

Jaskier’s mouth shuts with a click, and he raises his glass in apology. She shakes her head, mostly amused, and a little exasperated. Then she moves off to go serve someone else. 

Jaskier settles more easily onto the stool at the bar, and glances around the room. He dismisses his fellow bards with a small scrunch of his nose. He needs to find someone local, someone who seems like they might gossip. This is how songs are born, taking bits of stories here and there, and then working them into a large framework.

He spots a cluster in the corner. None of them have an instrument with them, and they are lacking the certain whimsical edge of typical bard clothes. Perfect.

He weaves through the crowd, keeping his meager cup clutched to his chest. Up until a few years ago, he would have gone straight up to them and asked for news. He has since learned to be subtle. Or… rather he’s learned to be more subtle. He picks a spot just within earshot, but it is unfortunately lacking a table to write on. Sitting on the floor and breaking out his notebook would be a little too obvious, even for him. He’s going to have to rely on memory for this one.

“She works as maid,” one man says, voice low but not low enough, “Said she can hear the noises coming from his room every night.”

“What kind of noises?” asks the woman sitting across from them.

“Grunts, his. Flesh on flesh. Sometimes she swears she hears wood on flesh too.”

“What a man gets up to in his own time is no business of ours.” a different man with a pointed beard pipes up.

“It is our business what he’s spending our money on, especially in times like these.” The first man counters, “If he’s using our tax money to pay professionals to beat him when war is looming on the horizon, it is very much our business.”

“It’s also our business if he’s doing that when he condemns the women in the lower town for offering the same services.” The woman says, “And I know of at least two women he’s had whipped for that very thing.”

Jaskier desperately wishes he could take out his packet of pages. This is the kind of thing he would desperately love to capture every salacious detail of. A king having torrid affairs behind his Queen’s back while condemning others. Oh this could make him rich.

“And the elaborate feasts he’s hosting,” the first man hisses, “Farmers have had the crops up barely a week, and already he’s gone through nearly a third of the stock. Won’t redistribute the leftovers to the masses neither.”

“Talk like this is treason.” Pointy beared hisses, “It could get you killed.”

With that reminder the group moves on to other topics. Grain yields, and spring births among their livestock. Nothing that will make a terribly interesting song.

Jaskier downs the last of his beer, and makes his way back to the bar. He declines the offer of another with a polite shake of his head, and emerges back out into the street. 

Night had fallen while he was inside. The air is abuzz with the hum of insects. The scent of spring flowers wafts through the air. Jaskier’s boots shuffle softly against the cobblestones as he goes for a stroll.

He can’t afford an inn stay, and he doesn’t think there’s a soul in town willing to be seduced right now. Everyone is too high on the excitement of the celebrations set for tomorrow, and trying to sleep so they can eat, drink, and dance all day. So the idea of crashing in someone else’s bed is out of the question.

It’s warm enough that he can sleep under the stars. He just has to find somewhere to do it. He hoists his modest pack up on his shoulder, and begins to look for an adequate place. Preferably he would like one with enough light to work by. There’s just one line at the middle of his piece for tomorrow that is giving him trouble. 

Eventually he finds a stable, not far from the stage that’s been set up for the competitions tomorrow. The light from the stable boy’s lamp filters out through the windows just enough for Jaskier to see by.

He’s not sure how late into the night he works, but eventually he manages to rewrite the line so that it fits as best as he can make it. He settles down into the pile of hay outside, travel cloak spread beneath him so he doesn’t wake itchy, and goes to sleep.

He’s never been an early riser but with the early light of day, and the adrenaline of an upcoming performance thrumming through his veins, he is up and getting ready. He washes his hands and face in the horse trough, and uses it to check his reflection. He fixes his hair, and plucks out a stray piece of hay. Then he dips into the shadows of the stables so he can change out of his dusty travelling clothes, and into the clothes he brought with him special for his performance.

Once all is said in done, bards are already lining up to claim their spot on the list. Jaskier stops just short of physically elbowing a woman out of the way when they arrive at the line at the same time. He only doesn’t because he doesn’t want to risk disqualification.

He signs up for the twelfth slot, and is well pleased. Early enough that the judges won’t yet be tired of their duties, but not so early as to set expectations for the rest of the competition.

The day passes in a blur of hurry up and wait. It takes hours before the judges are ready to begin, and another hour and a half after that for Jaskier’s slot to come up. Then he is forced to wait around so the judges can announce the finalists for the next day. That news comes long after candles and lanterns have had to be lit across the city. 

Shame, really. He had hoped to participate in some of the bonfires, and dancing. He can’t be too bitter though, even placing in the finals comes with a few crowns.

He spends another night in the pile of hay, and is up early the next day for his last performance. He will never admit to being surprised when he wins, even if he was up against some stiff competition.

He’s also grateful for having slept in a hay pile. The escorts usher him off stage as soon as he is presented with his winnings, barely giving him to pick up his lute case, and pack from where he’d hidden them backstage.

The castle is stiflingly hot. It is difficult to find pleasure in his sudden upgrade in accommodations when he feels as though he’s melting into the plush feather bed beneath him. He would almost prefer to go back to the hay pile.

At least he is able to take a cool bath, and scrub his body clean of the sweat and dirt that comes with travel and sleeping outdoors.

He dresses in his performance outfit again, picks up his lute, and steps out to wait for the footman to escort him to the grand hall. The man who comes to get him is a large eared fellow who won’t look Jaskier in the eyes.

The double doors swing open, and Jaskier enters to a smattering of applause. Not the greeting he had hoped for. He reminds himself of the prize money, and the extravagant room and board, smiles at the crowd of people, and approaches the high table.

He bows low, perhaps a touch more dramatically than necessary, and then swings his lute over his shoulders again.

“Your majesties,” he says warmly, “I can’t thank you enough for this honor. It is every bard’s dream to be welcomed into the halls of people as resplendent as yourselves.”

The Queen seems delighted by his flattery, the King seems indifferent. Fair enough. It was probably the Queen’s idea anyway.

“Are there any requests to start the night?” Jaskier asks.

“A ballad, perhaps?” the Queen suggests.

“Of course, any that your heart desires, your majesty.”

The queen makes her request, and Jaskier fights not to roll his eyes. A bit maudlin given that it’s meant to be a Suvistead Celebration. Still he bows again, and strides out among the tables.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see serving girls arguing. It seems that whoever loses is forced to serve the head table, and it puzzles him briefly. Normally serving the high table is an honor.

He turns on his heel to stride back up the row of tables, and as he sings, “I was in your arms/Thinking I belonged there/I figured it made sense/Building me a fence/Building me a home/Thinking I'd be strong there/But I was a fool/Playing by the rules”, he sees why the women are so hesitant to approach. A young woman refills the King’s goblet, and as she moves to leave he grabs her ass with one meaty hand, and squeezes.

Fucking pig.

After that Jaskier takes requests from the crowd. He plays Fishmonger's Daughter twice, and the Drunken Soldier three times to much applause. Then he is forced to return to the head table again. He is even less inclined to do favors for them now, but he is wise enough not to piss off a king. The Queen requests another ballad, any ballad, and given her last request he chooses one he learned just before crossing over the border into the Five Allies.

“And I can smell the smoke of hell/In every stitch and seam/And like flowers, the bodies tumble/Around this muddied lot/I cannot hear them scream/‘Forget me not.’”

The King’s chair scrapes back suddenly, before Jaskier can move on to the next verse. He is glaring straight at Jaskier, and if looks could kill Jaskier would be dead on the hall floor.

“You dare?” the King growls.

Jaskier’s stomach clenches painfully. All around him the nobles, and knights have stopped chatting. All eyes are fixed on him.

“I am sure I don’t know what you’re talking about your majesty, I picked a ballad as the Queen requested.” Jaskier says, eyes widening.

“You would bring the song of our sworn enemies, intended to slander me in every way, into our hall?” the King demands.

Jaskier shakes his head, instinctually backing away from the table, ceding ground, “No, your majesty. I think there must be some misunderstanding. I had no idea it was about you. I heard it at the western border of the allies, and thought it was musically-accomplished enough that it might please the Queen.”

“Darling,” the Queen says, placing a steadying hand on the King’s shoulder, “It does seem that he was unaware. Perhaps, because it is Suvistead, we can let him go. Just this once.”

Jaskier could kiss her. He really could.

“Fine.” the King grits out, “Guards! Escort this man out, and collect any winnings he has left.”

Anger rises in Jaskier’s throat. He can feel it fizzing its way down his arms, into his fingertips, and crawling its way behind his eyes.

“Now hold on just a minute,” he snaps and the guards are so surprised they stop where they are, “This is hardly fair. I didn’t come here with any intention of harm. Surely we can just leave this unfortunate incident in the past and move on?”

“You have insulted not only me, but my noble army. The very knights that dine with us now.” the King says, face flushing.

Jaskier should back down. He doesn’t back down. The anger is still choking him.

“Surely your egos, as big as they are can stand a little battering,” Jaskier shouts, “Besides that’s hardly the worst thing I could have said!”

The King leans forwards menacingly, “Choose your next words carefully, bard.”

In for a copper, in for a crown.

“Perhaps you’d like the song about how you steal crops from farmers without ever repaying the people who actually need the food,” Jaskier sneers, “Or perhaps the way you treat your servants? We all saw you pawing at them. When I was being raised in court, we were taught to treat servants with respect as they keep the damn household running!”

It occurs to him that the guards should really have hauled him out by now. Perhaps he is venting their exact thoughts.

“How dare--” the King gasps, almost as if he’s been struck.

“Or something more salacious?” Jaskier asks.

“Guards! Take him to the dungeons! He will be executed in the morning for treason!”

Rough hands seize him by the elbows, squeezing hard enough to bruise. He is bodily lifted on his feet as the guards drag him away from the table. He must look like a rabid thing, still spitting as he is hauled away.

“Does the Queen know? It seems that everyone else does. How could you pay women to pleasure you in such an unbefitting way while closing whorehouses across the city, and have the women whipped?!”

A hard object collides with his temple, and he goes limp in the guards’ arms. He doesn’t go unconscious, simply stunned. Though he is tempted to pass out in self defense to get rid of the headache.

The dungeons reek. They smell like piss, mold, and something else awful he doesn’t have the words for. He’s almost glad that he can’t identify it. One of the guards opens a cell, and the other rips Jaskier’s lute from him.

“Where are you going with that?” he demands even as he’s being shoved into the cell.

“We’ll give it to the king. He’ll have it burned after we execute you tomorrow.”

His poor lute.

Jaskier stumbles back from the bars of his cell and sit down heavily on the moldy mattress shoved in one corner. He’s not sure how long he sits there, eyes staring into empty air. The guards change at some point.

Then he hears a woman’s voice, sharp against the rumble of the voices of the guards. Then a young woman enters the dungeon proper. Jaskier recognizes her as the serving girl that inspired his outburst.

She’s carrying a cup, and a plate with a bit of bread on it. It looks like it used to have more on it. Guards probably took whatever else there was.

She smiles at him as she approaches, and holds out the bread and the cup. The cup is filled with some watered wine.

“Thank you.” Jaskier says, taking them.

“No. Thank you. No one has ever stood up to him like that.” she says, glancing over her shoulder to make sure they aren’t being overheard, “We’d all like to leave his service, but it would leave many of us destitute. We can’t afford to leave without marrying, but we can’t get anyone to marry us, what with his attentions.”

“Bastard.” Jaskier says darkly.

The woman nods, and glances over shoulder again.

“Waiting for something?”

There’s a loud crash of metal hitting the floor. The woman grins, and disappears up the stairs again. She returns with a key, obviously snagged from the belt of one of the guards.

“You drugged them.” Jaskier says, catching on.

“I wasn’t going to let him execute you for speaking the truth,” she unlocks the gate to his cell, “Quick. This way.”

Jaskier follows her through a series of tunnels beneath the dungeon. He has to wonder how often she’s done this to know her way around even with a torch. They come to a stop at the end of a tunnel, barred up.

“Old surge tunnel. Go under. Quick.” she instructs.

Jaskier drops to the floor, and squeezes himself underneath the broken rusty bars. The pointed tip of one catches his doublet, tearing it open, and missing his skin by a hair. He comes out covered in dust.

“What about you?”

“Oh. I’ll be fine. You need to find a way to get out of the city. Go.”

Jaskier gives her one last grateful smile, and then sprints away down the tunnel. He emerges in the merchant’s quarter.

It takes a week before he finds Geralt of Rivia, and convinces him to offer protection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs Jaskier sings are  
> The Winner Takes it All --ABBA  
> Elsa's Song --The Amazing Devil (Joey Batey's band)


	3. Chapter 3

They are at least a kilometer away from the gate before Geralt can sense Jaskier relax next to him. He blows out a sigh, eyeing Geralt out of the corner of his eyes. Finally, as though he can’t possibly can’t keep his mouth shut any longer, Jaskier begins talking.

“Why in Melitele’s name did you not bathe before we rode out?”

“Diversion. That guard is barely going to remember the fact I supposedly left with a castle servant. All he is going to remember are the guts.” Geralt explains, keeping Roach at a steady pace.

Jaskier is staring at him openly now, “Thank you. That was well thought out.”

Geralt shrugs, “Witchers are more than just monster killers. You can’t be an idiot when you protect the lands.”

“You did agree to protect me, though.” Jaskier points out, “What does that say about your intelligence?”

Geralt’s mouth quirks up a litte, “It says that I give into annoyances far too easily.”

Jaskier lets out a surprised laugh, and nudges Geralt’s thigh with his shoulder, “Well, I am grateful for that. I’m grateful for your help as well. I really did not fancy dying. It would have rather put a damper on my career.”

They fall into silence again after that. Geralt keeps an eye on Jaskier. Travelling bard or no, human legs were not meant to walk as far as a horse. The last thing he needs is to inadvertently injure him. It would make their trek through the allied kingdoms much harder.

Jaskier starts chattering again just before sundown. Geralt expects to be annoyed by the noise, but he finds himself softening a bit towards it. Kaer Morhen wasn’t exactly noisy, but never silent either. There was always someone out and about, exploring the hallways, or working. Jaskier’s level of chatter hits just so.

“Please tell me we’re stopping in an inn or tavern tonight.” Jaskier says finally, “We can’t be far from one.”

“You’re a wanted man.” Geralt says, completely dumbfounded.

“Yes, but you stink. I don’t know about Witchers, but us mere humans do not appreciate the smell of guts, and… destiny? Onion?”

“It’s onion.” Geralt admits.

“Well onion and guts is as unpleasant as they come. Even the dungeons smelled better than you do.”

“It’s not safe.”

“There’s also the matter of coin. How am I supposed to pay you for your services if I can’t earn money? Rabbits are hardly going to be paying me for my performance.” Jaskier points out, and when Geralt glances down, Jaskier’s eyebrows are risen almost all the way to his hairline. He looks for all the world like he just won the argument.

“We’ll deal with that when we get further away. You gave me enough for a down payment.”

“You still stink.” Jaskier says mildly.

“We’ll stop by a lake or stream if my smell offends you that badly.”

Jaskier grins, bright and mischievous, “Thank you kindly. I will admit to not exactly smelling like a peach at the moment either. It’s been since before I came for the competition that I’ve had a chance to clean properly.”

“You should have been arrested in winter. It would be too cold for you to sweat.” Geralt grumbles.

“Good advice,” Jaskier says, blue eyes twinkling, “Next time I am arrested by an egotistical homicidal king, I will endeavour to make it during a more convenient season for washing.”

“Are you sure you didn’t just annoy the king into giving you the death sentence?”

To Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier laughs at that. His head tilts back in amusement, exposing the dirty column of his throat. It’s not the worst sound Geralt has heard.

“Believe it or not, there is some precedent for that.” Jaskier admits.

“I believe it.”

“You know, you never told me how convinced King Fuckface to give you back my lute.”

“‘I told him I’d pissed off a whore.” Geralt answers, only half paying attention.

There’s running water nearby. He can smell it. He can almost hear it too, the rush of water over rocks. It is probably a river. Too much water to be a stream, not enough to be a lake.

“Have you ever actually pissed off a whore? They tend not to let you leave without an attempt at your manhood.” Jaskier says conversationally.

Geralt grunts, and distantly hears the sound of Jaskier grumbling something under his breath about the lack of conversation skills. It doesn’t bother Geralt any. After all, Jaskier didn’t hire him for conversation, he was hired to get the idiot safely from one place to another.

Jaskier is right about one thing. They both need baths, or a place to wash. Geralt isn’t normally bothered by the smell of guts, too used to it after decades of this work, but it has clung to him far longer than he’s ever let it go before. Jaskier stinks too. He smells like dirt, stale blood, sweat, and old fear. It is almost more unpleasant than the guts.

He glances over at Jaskier again, because the man has fallen silent. In their short acquaintance, Geralt has gotten the feeling that Jaskier is a dramatic fool. He looks tired now, like his ordeal is finally catching up to him. Geralt spots the source of the smell of blood. At some point Jaskier’s nose had bled. There are faint traces of it even after almost a week.

Geralt changes direction, headed straight for the river. They aren’t far off, but he had wanted to gain a little more ground before they rested. It is obvious that Jaskier isn’t going to make it that far.

They find a perfectly suitable clearing right next to the river, and Geralt dismounts. When it becomes clear they are not going to move for the rest of the night, Jaskier groans and collapses in the grass.

“I am fucking exhausted.” he announces to no one in particular.

“Still want a wash?”

Jaskier pushes himself up on his elbow, “Did you think to bring any other clothes besides these?” he tugs at the awful yellow uniform.

“No.”

Jaskier sighs but rolls back to his feet. He stumbles fully dressed down to the river, and Geralt follows at a small distance. He is half concerned that Jaskier might just throw himself into the river, clothes and all. Jaskier stops at the edge of the river, and strips.

He seems too tired to be concerned about modesty now. He affords Geralt a fine view of a surprisingly well defined back, and arms, but dives into the river before he can get a good look lower.

“Fuck this feels good.” Jaskier says, head emerging a moment later.

The water plasters his hair to his forehead, and makes him looks suspiciously like a half drowned rat.

“I think you should just climb in kit and all. Those clothes are disgusting.” he says, gesturing at Geralt.

Geralt sits on a boulder to remove his boots, but takes Jaskier’s advice. He simply wades in in his clothes. Black ichor eases from the fabric, and is whisked away in the current in thick rivulets. It makes even Geralt wrinkle his nose.

He gathers a bit of silt from the bottom, and sets about scrubbing himself free of guts. Jaskier paddles to the edge of the river, retrieving his own clothes, and attempting to rinse them. Dirt turns the water grey around it, and Jaskier gives Geralt a look.

“Where did you get these?”

“A servant I met in the hall.”

“Was he perhaps a bit greasy?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, “I didn’t pay attention.”

Jaskier shoots him another disgruntled look, and continues to swish the doublet and trousers in the water until it finally runs clear. Then he exits, heading back to where they left roach. Geralt lets him go, and focuses on his own muck.

He follows Jaskier sometimes later. When he returns to their makeshift camp, Jaskier has set up a decent fire, and spread his clothes across a boulder to dry. He takes one look at Geralt, and stands up.

“Absolutely not.”

“What now?”

“You are still covered in guts. When I met you, your hair was sort of white-silver. Now it’s dark grey. Honestly, didn't witcher school teach you to bathe?”

“You sound like an annoyed mother.” Geralt grumbles, laying out his clothes next to Jaskier’s.

Jaskier snatches him by the elbow, surprising Geralt again, and he reminds himself to try to figure out why Jaskier seems to be able to get the drop on him like this. He starts leading Geralt back down to the river, and Geralt is startled that he goes along with it.

Jaskier shoves him back into the water, and takes it upon himself to get Geralt the rest of the way clean. He works the leather tie out of Geralt’s hair, and starts combing his fingers through the tangles.

Geralt’s eyes slip closed. It takes everything in him not to purr at the treatment. The gentle rhythm of Jaskier tugging muck out of his hair, and combing through tangles with copious help from water is soothing.

“You don’t need to wash me,” Geralt protests eventually, “I’m not a child.”

“Consider it part of payment. I will annoy you far less if you’re properly clean, and you seem to be enjoying it."

Geralt cracks an eye to glare Jaskier. Jaskier smiles winningly down at him.

“Keep using that scary face on everyone, and I won’t ever need to worry about the bounty on my head.”

Jaskier deems him clean enough, and they return to the fire. Jaskier walks over to Roach, and it is on the tip of Geralt’s tongue to tell him not to touch Roach.

“Stop your moaning. I’m just getting my lute.”

Geralt’s mouth snaps shut, and he stretches out on the bedroll Jaskier had laid out.

Jaskier sits in the grass, lute propped on his knees. He looks entirely in his element. Like it doesn’t even matter to him that he’s nude, in the woods, with a witcher watching him. It makes Geralt wonder why he had to turn around when Jaskier was changing back in the city.

Jaskier settles into a series of scales. His tongue pokes a little out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates. He pauses every now and then to tune.

After he has warmed up, he starts playing actual music. Geralt recognizes some of it, others he’s never heard before. He does recognize an elven lullaby, and he closes his eyes to listen.

It reminds him of things only half-remembered. Mountains, fields, and the dark open sky at night. It resonates deep in his chest, and makes his eyes heavy. Without ever really deciding, he falls asleep. The only noise penetrating his slumber is the occasional melody from whatever Jaskier is playing.

He wakes with sunrise as usual. Roach is already awake as well, swishing her tail as she nibbles on some of the grass around her. The fire died out at some point over the course of the evening. Jaskier is on the other side of it, sleeping on the hard ground with only a thin travel blanket over him.

Geralt takes a second to feel guilty. He genuinely hadn’t meant to hog the sleeping roll. Still, they need to keep moving.

He rouses Jaskier who whines a little at having to be awake so early. Together they dress in silence, and Geralt passes Jaskier a bit of dried meat from one of Roach’s saddlebags. Jaskier hums gratefully, still half asleep. Then they return to the road.

Jaskier has his lute strapped to his back as they walk, but he hasn’t touched the strings yet. Geralt wonders how late into the night he played. He suspects it was hell to stay away from the lute for over a week. He imagines being separated from his swords for that long, and finds he dislikes it.

The sun has fully risen by the time Jaskier seems to properly wake up. He is his usual charming self as they go, and he strums his lute softly as they travel.

Geralt thinks that there have been far worse assignments over the years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art for this chapter was done by the amazing kayivy. You can find more of her work [here](https://kayivy.tumblr.com/), and a rebloggable version of this chapter art [here](https://kayivy.tumblr.com/post/629114122060103680/firelight-and-lullabies-my-witcherbigbang).


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier talks. No. Talks isn’t the right word. Talking implies that he makes easy conversation with moments of silence. It’s more accurate to say Jaskier chatters. All day. It makes Geralt wonder if he ever stops for breath. 

He remarks on everything they pass “Look at that bird, Geralt. Do you know what it’s called?”, “How many monsters have you fought?”, “You’re the one with Witcher stamina, why am I the one walking?”

It drives Geralt mad. He’s spent the better part of fifty years alone. When he does interact with people they are either overawed by him, or are terrified. Neither reaction leads to much conversation. Now here’s Jaskier, gabbering away.

Some days Geralt considers flinging himself into a lake just so he doesn’t have to listen to the chatter. Then Jaskier will do something, and Geralt finds himself begrudgingly amused.

They wake much earlier than Jaskier is used to as he is no doubt used to staying at courts performing late into the night. He is quiet in the mornings, and it is almost the only time he’s ever quiet. Even in sleep he murmurs to himself as though composing a new verse, but in the mornings Jaskier is quiet. 

He stumbles through collecting things with his eyes still half lidded. Sometimes he’ll stumble over a tree root or a rock because he isn’t paying close enough attention. Then he’ll pat Roach sleepily on the nose before he starts loading everything back into the saddle bags.

They haven’t been able to stop at an inn yet, and Jaskier has been going stir crazy without an audience. Even several weeks into travelling, Geralt doesn’t trust that they are far enough away from that king for it to be safe. So he’s been taking the brunt of Jaskier’s need for music.

Night has just fallen, and the temperature among the trees has remained mild. The fire crackles merrily as Geralt roasts a hare he caught. Jaskier had been playing for the last hour. Then his fingers pause on the strings of his lute, and he makes direct eye contact with Geralt.

“What music do you like?”

“Don’t know.” Geralt answers and pulls the hare off the fire. He slices off a piece of the meat, and holds it out to Jaskier.

Jaskier sets his lute aside, and takes the offered piece. He tears into it with much gusto, and it makes Geralt wonder how Jaskier ever held up to a life at court. Big mouth, and a complete lack of manners. It’s a wonder he wasn’t sentenced to death by someone else much sooner.

Jaskier swallows, and turns his attention on Geralt again. “I just realized that because we haven’t been able to stop anywhere for me to perform, I’ve been playing for you. It would be more enjoyable for everyone if you actually liked what I’m playing.”

“It sounds fine.” Geralt responds, not looking away from his own dinner.

Jaskier makes an annoyed huff in the back of his throat and nudges Geralt with the toe of his boot, “Come on. There must be a few songs that you like.”

Geralt just grunts, and shuffles away so Jaskier’s long legs can’t reach him.

“Just give me two songs,” Jaskier continues either not noticing the dismissal, or not caring. Probably the latter. “My head is like a musical library. Give me two songs you like, and I know I can find more. It will be good practice.”

Geralt sighs, and fixes Jaskier with an annoyed stare, “Drop it, Jaskier.”

“No. Don’t think I will.” he says with a bright grin, “Easiest way to get me to leave you alone is to answer my question.”

Geralt doesn’t roll his eyes but it is a near thing, “They’ll be older than you are.”

“Even better. Will really make me think. Oxenfurt was big on studying all periods of music.”

Geralt gives in. Giving Jaskier seems to be the quickest and easiest way to get him to stop whatever it is that is giving Geralt a headache. So Geralt lists two songs that he vaguely remembers from his childhood. To his surprise, Jaskier knows them both.

Jaskier spends the next several days sifting through the songs he knows. He plucks one seemingly out of thin air and struggles through it over and over again until he can play it perfectly. Then after they set up camp for the night, Jaskier plays for him.

It’s endearing in its own way. Jaskier is probably just doing it so Geralt doesn’t get so annoyed that he leaves Jaskier in the lurch. Still, it shows more consideration towards him than he has ever had.

Geralt deems it safe to go to an inn after six weeks. They are far enough from the center of the kingdom that people have either long heard about the fugitive and have given up looking, or still haven’t heard the news from the citadel.

Jaskier is so happy to be playing for a crowd again, that he jumps from the camp fire, kisses Geralt on the cheek, and rushes off to the stream to wash his clothes. 

Jaskier on stage is different from the Jaskier Geralt has been travelling with. He’s still oddly charming, and too mischievous for his own good, but there’s something that grounds him now. The audience feeds into him as he drifts between tables, winking and delighting. His movements are more assured than they’ve ever been trying to set up for camp. He belongs among the people.

It’s easy to see why the women sway toward him like they’re enchanted. They are. In a way. They’ve been taken in by the songs that Jaskier sings.

Jaskier finishes his set and comes to sit in the dark corner that Geralt occupies. He’s grinning ear to ear, lighting up his eyes. He smells like joy and adrenaline. Geralt wishes Jaskier could smell that way more often instead of smelling like nerves and Roach.

“So. What did you think?”

“About what?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and takes Geralt’s tankard of ale, ignoring the grunt of protest, “My performance. Was it good?”

“Sounded fine.” Geralt responds, and snatches back his tankard before Jaskier can drink the whole thing himself.

Jaskier flicks a crumb at Geralt in retribution, and flags down a tankard for himself.

*

They fall into a routine of sorts. 

Geralt avoids the larger cities like the plague. Guards from the citadel are far more likely to have gone to the larger cities first. Some of the villages tucked in among the trees and hills are so small that they don’t crop up on any maps. They stick to these villages.

The pay isn’t as good for either service that they provide because the villages tend to be poorer. Geralt refuses to put Jaskier at risk by allowing them to travel to larger cities. Part of it is because he doesn’t want to deal with the patrols when they inevitably recognize his charge, and part of it is because he admires Jaskier. His gifts are performing and walking, but he’d still gone up against a tyrant. Geralt can respect that.

When they stay in these villages it goes one of two ways. Either the one tavern in town will allow them to camp out in the back room of the building provided Jaskier sings for their supper or Geralt takes care of whatever supernatural pest problem they’re dealing with, or a kind homeowner allows them to sleep on the kitchen floor or in the stables for the same price.

Camping is a different affair. Jaskier tends to insist that they find a body of water at a minimum of every three days because any longer than that Geralt starts to smell like onions. Jaskier will move that timeline up if Geralt’s been doing his “witcher-ing”. Then they’ll set up camp and Jaskier will help work guts out of Geralt’s hair with gentle touches to his scalp and shoulders, that sometimes linger a touch too long.

After that they eat silently by the campfire. Then Jaskier pulls out his lute and begins to play. Geralt pretends he hates it, and Jaskier sees right through him. 

Jaskier runs out of songs he thinks Geralt will like by the end of their second month together. That’s when he starts composing his own songs again. That adds a new aspect to their routine. Instead of Geralt complaining about music, he complains about content. Jaskier takes inspiration from their time together, but his interpretation of events is loose to say the least.

“Bring him in/cried fair Julian,” Jaskier sings one night.

Geralt is just confused by that, “We don’t travel with anyone named Julian.”

Jaskier looks up from his lute, grimacing a bit, “We do actually. That’s my given name. Julian Alfred Pankratz. It’s a stupid name. I far prefer Jaskier.”

“Then why put it in the song?” 

Jaskier shrugs, “It fit the rhythm and rhyme scheme better than Jaskier.”

*

Week nine they come across a village that is a bit larger than the ones they’ve been stopping in. It’s still small enough to be safe, and Jaskier is itching to test out his new songs. 

To Jaskier’s delight it has an actual inn. He leaves Geralt to stable Roach, and vanishes into the inn without so much as checking with Geralt. 

Geralt rolls his eyes a bit at that. He said that he thought it was safe, not that it definitely was. There’s a big difference between the two. He has long since given up trying to get Jaskeir to use his brain. Geralt has just had to get used to the idea he is going to have to pull Jaskier out of the fire at some point.

By the time he makes it inside, Jaskier is already performing. Geralt gets the cheapest meal available, and takes up his usual spot in the corner. Brooding as Jaskier calls it.

It’s many candle marks later when Jaskier finally takes a break, and joins Geralt at his table. A young woman fetches him a drink without being asked and gives it to him with a brilliant smile. Jaskier winks at her, and takes a long sip without making eye contact. The young woman giggles, and shuffles off to the bar again. She misses the annoyed glare he shoots in her direction.

“Don’t look so dour.” Jaskier teases.

“I’m trying to keep you from getting killed, and every time we enter a town you insist on seducing anyone you can. You have to see how fucking married women, and any other stranger, makes my life harder.”

Jaskier takes another sip and smirks at Geralt over the top of the tankard, “A man has urges. Unless you plan on taking care of that yourself.”

Geralt grunts and takes sip himself. It’s not like he hasn’t considered it.

“That’s what I thought. Witchers. Too noble, too heroic.”

“Really, Jaskier?”

“While you were sitting there being disapproving, I got us a proper room. Doesn’t an actual bed sound nice?”

“A room? How is protecting you _costing_ me money?” Geralt snaps.

“I’m paying for it with my performance. I packed the floor tonight so we get it for free. I’m not that stupid.”

Geralt fixes Jaskier with a stare. Jaskier raises his eyebrows, placing his hands on his hips.

“Oh! If you’re going to be like that then you can sleep with Roach tonight.”

“You’re not stupid.” Geralt concedes.

A bed sounds too good to spar with Jaskier about his relative wisdom.

“That’s what I thought. Now if you’ll excuse me, my public is waiting.” Jaskier says, downs the last of his drink, and returns to the floor.

Geralt follows Jaskier to their room at the end of his set. It’s at the end of the hall, tucked into a corner. It’s also the smallest, but they’ll take anything that isn’t a kitchen floor or a camp. At least when Jaskier opens the door a lantern is already burning inside and it’s clean. Geralt can’t hear any vermin scuttling around in the shadows.

They step inside, and Geralt sits on the bed. He’s had his armor on for close to four days now and he just wants rid of it. Jaskier goes to a pitcher in the corner, and sets to work rinsing out his clothes. 

He’s been alternating between the awful mustard yellow outfit, and his navy outfit with the tear. A farmer’s wife had been kind enough to mend it using some fabric from a skirt that was headed to the scrap bin. So there’s now a large slash of green down the back of the doublet.

Finally Geralt sets the last of his armor on the floor, Jaskier simply holds his hand out for Geralt’s clothes. They have long since gotten past any lingering awkwardness when it comes to nudity. Two months together will do that. Jaskier lays all their clothes out to dry on the table by the window, and then glances around the room.

“Oh shit.” he huffs, looking annoyed.

“What now?” Geralt groans.

“Nothing. I just assumed that because I said I was travelling with a companion they would put me in a room with two beds.”

Geralt could cry. He’s been looking forward to a proper bed. He hasn’t had one since before making his way to the citadel where he found Jaskier. But Jaskier is only human and needs his rest, and he had earned the room with his hard work, he deserves the bed.

“I’ll take the floor.”

“Nonsense. We’ve been travelling together long enough that I trust you won’t murder me in my sleep. I don’t mind getting cozy if you don’t.”

Geralt considers for a moment and then stretches out on the bed. Jaskier blows out the lantern, stumbles awkwardly in the dark. Geralt can hear the uneven footsteps as Jaskier tries to avoid tripping over anything on his way to bed. Then he slides under the covers right next to Geralt.

He’s warm, and at first Geralt is distinctly aware of the extra weight in the bed. Jaskier drops off to sleep right away, and his even breathing is like a lullabye. Before long Geralt’s eyes slip shut. 

He doesn’t exactly fall asleep. He rarely does when he’s with other people, less so since he was contracted to protect Jaskier. He can’t shake the feeling that if he were to properly dream then he won’t wake up in time to prevent Jaskier’s demise should they be attacked.

So he meditates. His mind drifts away from him and he doesn’t think of anything. He has several moments where he swims back close to proper consciousness only to realize the sound he heard was Jaskier composing in his sleep again.

He opens his eyes at the first light of dawn. Jaskier is still asleep next to him. His face is tucked close to Geralt’s chest, using its bulk to block out the sunlight. He seems unbearably young in the grey light. He couldn’t be more than twenty. It’s easy to forget, with the way Jaskier fills a space, that he is still new to the world. Geralt isn’t sure he was ever that young.

He is sure of two things. The first, he hasn’t been this rested in longer than he cares to admit. The second, he won’t let anything happen to Jaskier.


	5. Chapter 5

There’s something off about the town. Geralt notices it the moment he steps foot through the town gate. It’s too quiet, too still. People move about their chores, but rarely is a word exchanged between them. A place like this is all about the hustle and bustle. Children playing, women chattering as they went about the washing, that sort of thing. Instead no one seems to be able to look each other in the face.

“Geralt, I think we should keep moving.” Jaskier says quietly beside him.

Geralt shakes his head, and dismounts from Roach, “No. There’s a job here.”

“Of course there is.” Jaskier mutters darkly, “When is there not a job in a place like this?”

Geralt flashes Jaskier a smile, small and tight. Jaskier just rolls his eyes and makes a shooing motion with his hands, clearly indicating that Geralt should go check.

Geralt hands over Roach’s reigns, trusting Jaskier to see her safely to a stable. He’s never liked people touching her, one too many horse traders trying to buy a semi-immortal horse, but Jaskier has proved himself trustworthy over the last few months.He knows Jaskier won’t run off, if for no other reason than he still needs Geralt to get him safely over the border.

He walks through the village, peering around for any sign of someone in charge. He finds a great hall standing near the center of the village and decides to try there. It’s where any town business is discussed after all, best place to find an official.

He approaches the door and reaches his hand out to knock when he hears some commotion several yards away. He turns his head, scanning the buildings for the source. Moments later a small group of people burst forth from behind one of the buildings. They’re carrying a man between them and shouting.

They brush by Geralt without even acknowledging his presence. They almost literally break the door down in their hurry to get inside. He can hear one of the people call out, “We have another.”

Geralt steps in after them and his nose wrinkles at the smell of sickness in the air. Down the length of the great hall are row after row of cots. Each of them hold a man, still as death. The quietness is sometimes punctuated with a cough or someone being sick.

The group of people settle the man they’re carrying into a cot, and a haggard woman steps forward to do what she can as far as treatment.

An outbreak then. Nothing a WItcher can do against sickness. Still, there’s something telling him that there’s something more to this. Jaskier would probably call it his sixth sense.

The haggard woman looks up, and frowns when she sees him. She places her hands on her hips disapprovingly.

“What do you want?” she snaps, “This is a sickroom. No one in or out.”

“What are they ill with?” Geralt asks, holding his hands up placatingly.

“We’re still trying to figure it out.” she says and points stiff-armed to the door, “Now leave.”

Geralt takes a step back so he’s hovering in the doorway, hoping that the give of ground will put her in a better mood. She’s probably been tending to these men for weeks now.

“Any place they all have in common?”

One of the people who had carried in the latest victim glances at the woman, and when she doesn’t seem to be willing to talk, they step forward.

“There’s this road outside of town. The men use it when they go into the woods for hunting or logging. Every one of them has been found there.”

“Do you want me to investigate?” Geralt asks.

The group shuffles their feet, exchanging looks. Geralt knows exactly what they’re going to say before they say it.

“We wouldn’t be able to pay you. All of our funds have been used trying to buy remedies for the sick.”

Geralt wavers a moment. He can’t leave them to defend for themselves. It goes against everything he knows. He also can’t afford to work for free, especially now that he’s taken Jaskier on board. It will be at least another month before he gets paid for that and he spends most of his day shoving away the sinking sensation everytime he gets when he thinks about traveling without him again.

“Food for the road, and a room for the night.” Geralt suggests.

Most of them sigh in relief. Even the haggard woman looks grateful. 

“We can afford that. Come on. I’ll show you where they’ve been found.” the person says, collecting their jacket, “I’m Caelan.”

Geralt grunts and follows Caelan out of the great hall. Just as they emerge, Jaskier appears as well and slings his lute over his shoulder. He has that stubborn look on his face.

“No.” Geralt grunts as they reach him.

“I didn’t even ask anything.” Jaskier responds indignantly, and continues following them down the street.

“You were going to ask to come along.”

“If you would give me more details about your work then we wouldn’t have to have this conversation every time.” Jaskier points out critically.

“It’s too dangerous. You can’t pay me if you’re dead.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, “Do stop trying to pretend you don’t like me. You let me touch Roach these days.”

Geralt grunts. Jaskier, clearly thinking he won the argument, grins at Geralt in return.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Caelan interjects, “But we really don’t have time to argue. If one person has been attacked then we can expect several more over the next few few hours.”

Geralt sighs and glares at Jaskier, “Stay out of the way.”

“I will be but a silent observer.” Jaskier promises.

Caelan leads them out of town, following not so much a road as a winding little trail. If you don’t have to deal with carts or horses then it might seem like a road. 

As they wind their way deeper, Geralt can feel that familiar tingle in the air. There is undoubtedly a monster nearby. Even Jaskier is shifting restlessly behind him. When the tingle becomes too much to bear, Geralt stops them.

“I can take it from here. Go back.” he says to Caelan.

Caelan nods, their eyes wide and nervous. They clasp Geralt on the shoulder, “Good luck.”

With Caelan gone, Geralt faces Jaskier. “Stay back. Stay silent.”

“You have my word. I won’t be a distraction.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“Then… what _are_ you worried about?” Jaskier asks, a confused frown on his face.

“I’m worried that I hauled you half way across the continent only to have you die because you’re too fucking sutbborn to stay in the village where there is no monster.”

Jaskier grins slyly, “I knew you liked me.”

“You can’t pay me if you’re dead.” Geralt repeats, sounding stiff even to his own ears.

“Geralt, it’s okay. You can admit we’re friends.”

“Jaskier--”

“Geralt!”

“I don’t--”

“No! Geralt, look!” Jaskier shouts and points over Geralt’s shoulder.

There’s a woman floating among the trees. Her hair is black, and shining but in a way that is not at all appealing. Her eyes are a shade of blue that could rival the sky. She smiles at them then, exposing teeth that are sharp.

Geralt shoves Jaskier behind him, guarding him from the spirit in front of them. The spirit reaches out her hand, head tilted invitingly.

Geralt lunges with his sword drawn, and swings at the spirit’s arm. She lets out a shriek that could rattle the trees, and comes for Geralt. Again, he shoves Jaskier away and then dances the opposite direction, drawing the spirit’s attention. 

He breathes easier when she ignores Jaskier and instead charges after him. He swings out again with his sword, and again makes contact. She howls, and lashes out with a claw-like hand. It catches Geralt in the shoulder, and he hisses between his teeth. He can already feel the sickness crawling beneath his skin.

He had a feeling it was a Likhoradka. Damn things kissing men, possessing them, and using them to spread plague through the streets. It’s going to be much harder to kill than he initially thought.

They get to a point where it is just an exchange of blows. Each swipe of his sword weakens her, and each swipe of her claws weakens him. Geralt finds himself wishing desperately that he’d had enough time to stop to take a potion. It might give him an edge. 

The Likhoradka swings again, and this time gets ahold of the sword. The blade bites into her skin and she lets out another scream that makes Geralt wonder if his ears are bleeding. He yanks on the sword, expecting to cut her deeper. Instead she holds on for dear life and yanks back. His grip is slippery with blood, and his sword pulls free of his hand. The Likhoradka hurls it away from them, and it lands somewhere out of sight in the underbrush with a crash.

Geralt freezes, and the Likhoradka smiles again. She is suddenly the picture of charm again. She smiles with teeth that are still too sharp, and once again tilts her head invitingly. She holds out her hand for Geralt to take.

Geralt steps back, trying to angle himself towards where he thinks his sword landed. His eyes don’t leave the Likhoradka. He hasn’t fought one before, but he remembers Eskel saying if you watch them then they can’t sneak up on you. So he stares at the unnerving almost-beauty of the Likhoradka, and shuffles his feet in the underbrush, hoping his foot will come into contact with it.

His foot comes into contact with something hard, and his eyes flick down. It’s just a branch from a tree. When his eyes flick back, the Likhoradka is almost on top of him. He tries to take a step back, but his feet are rooted to the spot. He can't move. 

The Likhoradka makes a noise then that is probably meant to be a charming giggle. She reaches out with her extended hand, and cups Geralt’s cheek. He expected her hands to feel cold and withered. Instead they’re surprisingly warm, and alive.

She leans in, lips parted just a bit. Geralt struggles against her hold. He leans as far back as he can in stiff leather armor. He knows it’s useless. He’s just prolonging the inevitable. How embarrassing to go out because he dropped his sword. It wouldn’t surprise him if Vesmir learned necromancy to resurrect him and then kill him himself. 

He hopes Jaskier’s song about this is flattering at least. His heart clenches painfully in his chest. Jaskier. He hoped he’d been smart and ran at the first sign of trouble. He’s surely close enough to the border now that he could make it safely across.

Suddenly, the Likhoradka screams again. She tosses her head back, hair almost hitting Geralt in the face. She shudders, and drops her hand from his face. Without him to hold onto, she staggers sideways. Then she collapses in the underbrush, sword protruding from her back.

Standing just a couple of paces away is Jaskier. He looks rattled, face drawn and pale. One cheek is scratched. Geralt feels his breath catch in his throat. He was sure the Likhoradka had been focused on him.

He rushes forward, gathering Jaskier close, “Did she get you?”

Jaskier shakes his head, “No. No, I’m okay.”

Geralt prods at the scratch on Jaskier’s cheek, “You’re hurt.”

Jaskier sucks in some air from the pain and bats at Geralt’s hands, “Got that when you shoved me. Thank you for that.”

“Better a scratch than death.” Geralt points out.

Jaskier smiles a bit, “You know, in the end it was good that I came. I think I just saved your life.”

“You did.” Geralt agrees.

He brushes his finger against Jaskier’s cheek again, gently this time. Everything tells him that Jaskier is fine. He didn’t even end up covered in Likhoradka guts so there’s no chance that they could have gotten into the scratch to make him sick. Still his heart beats heavy in his chest, faster than he though it could go after being slowed by mutagens.

Jaskier mirrors Geralt’s pose, his fingers are calloused from playing the lute.

“Geralt. It didn’t even come close to me until I stabbed it. I swear I’m fine.” he says gently.

Geralt nods, eyes slipping closed. He rests his forehead against Jaskier’s for a moment, just breathing him in. He’s alive and well.

When he opens his eyes again, Jaskier is still looking at him. They gaze into each other’s eyes, tension unspooling between them.

Geralt isn’t sure who moves first. All he knows is that one moment, he’s cradling Jaskier’s face, the next Jaskier’s lips are crashing into his. The kiss is sloppy and rough, burning off adrenaline. Jaskier’s hands dig into Geralt’s shoulders, anchoring them both. Jaskier’s lips are soft, and hot beneath Geralt’s. 

Jaskier’s hand slips lower, inadvertently brushing one of the scratches Geralt got in the fight. Geralt winces, and they break apart.

“Are _you_ okay?” Jaskier asks, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“I will be.” Geralt says dismissively, and tries to pull Jaskier in for another kiss. The adrenaline still burns under his skin, mixing with the joy of getting to kiss Jaskier.

Jaskier puts a hand between them, stopping Geralt, “First we get those cuts cleaned up. Then we fuck.”

Geralt grumbles, but draws his sword out of the Likhordka’s back.


	6. Chapter 6

They’re maybe a day’s ride out from the border, and Geralt reluctantly agrees to let them stop. He’s been anxious enough about getting caught by increased guard numbers, that he’s been sharing Roach with Jaskier. It only makes sense that they let her stop to rest. The town they’re in, Blaviken, is large enough that they should be able to get lost among the crowd.

Geralt ties Roach up, leaving her to graze on a patch of grass near a trough of water. Jaskier removes his lute from her side, and slings it over his own shoulder. He won’t play here. Too much of a risk. Still, Geralt has noticed that ever since Jaskier got it back he’s been loathe to leave it behind anywhere.

They enter the main thoroughfare of the town cautiously. When no one immediately jumps out and accuses Jaskier of something, or draws attention to Geralt being a witcher, Geralt feels himself relax. They’re safe for the time being, but he still keeps an eye out.

He’s so focused on sensing the shifts in the crowd, that he doesn’t register what Jaskier is saying to him. He just grunts distractedly in response. Then he turns around, about to mention something about seeing a tavern ahead for some food, and realizes Jaskier is gone. 

His heart thuds heavily in his chest. A moment’s distraction and Jaskier vanishes. Just his luck. Then he spots a splotch of mustard yellow in the crowd, and he can breathe again. He weaves his way through the crowd and comes to a stop behind Jaskier just in time to hear:

“Thank you, good sir. I’m sure this will be well received.” Jaskier turns and collides with Geralt’s chest, “Melitele, Geralt! You move too fucking quietly for a man of your size.”

“You wandered off.” Geralt says by way of explanation.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, and then elbows Geralt away from the stall. It’s a mark of how close they’ve become over the last several months that Geralt allows himself to be bullied in such a manner.

When they reach a more secluded spot, Jaskier stops. They’re under a tree. It’s branches stretch far into the sky, offering them a bit of privacy. They are protected by the shade, though neither of them can really blend in anywhere.

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Jaskier says soothingly, “I saw the stall and it gave me an idea.”

“What idea was that? Spend the last of our coin on--”

“Do shut up,” Jaskier says mildly, “Now, close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

Geralt glares at him, but Jaskier simply raises his brows in response. So Geralt does as he’s told, feeling like a fool the whole time. 

“You’re not peeking are you?” Jaskier asks.

“Jaskier.” Geralt says warningly but he gets a laugh in response.

“Fine. Fine. Here.” He presses something into Geralt’s hand.

Geralt opens his eyes and looks down at the object. It’s a band of leather. It’s black, and not terribly thick. It is maybe half a finger in width. 

“What is it?” he asks, completely at a loss.

“A bracelet.” Jaskier responds.

“A bracelet?”

“Yes. Like the kind you put around your wrist. Here, I’ll put it on you.”

Jaskier takes Geralt’s wrist into his nimble fingers. They’re cool where they bush his skin, but Geralt can feel the tingle long after Jaskier has clasped the bracelet in place. They’ve been together a few times since the Likhoradka, and Geralt is more reluctant than ever to have Jaskier free of him.

“Why did you buy me a bracelet?”

“Consider it a token.”

“A token of what?”

“My thanks.” Jaskier shrugs, brushing his thumb where the leather meets skin, “You didn’t have to agree to be my escort. I know I drove you mad at first, but I like to think we became close. I wanted you to have a reminder of me when you went back to your witcher-ing.”

“I hate when you call it that.” Geralt grunts.

He doesn’t know how to do this. Goodbyes have never been easy, especially when he can long outlive whoever he grows close to. Until he’d allowed Jaskier to annoy him into taking this job, he figured he’d have a solitary existence to the end. Now, the thought of returning to the Path alone itches under his skin. He doesn’t want to remember Jaskier. He wants Jaskier to travel with him still. So he focuses on what he does know how to do, be gruff and irritated.

“Do you like it?” Jaskier asks, blue eyes shining with hope.

“Yes.” Geralt grunts.

Jaskier grins at him, letting out that little whooping laugh, “Good. I’m heading to the tavern for some food. Coming?”

“Have some business.” Geralt responds evasively.

“Right. Well come find me when that’s taken care of.”

Jaskier smiles one last time, and heads in the direction of the tavern. Geralt should go with him. He knows the amount of trouble Jaskier can get into unsupervised. Still, he wants to do something in return. He feels like Jaskier’s gift can’t go unreturned.

He heads in the opposite direction, back towards the stalls with all of their goods. He has no idea what Jaskier would like. Or, he does, but everything he thinks of is far above the coin he can reasonably part with. A new doublet would put him in debt, a good quality ring would bleed him dry.

He trails his way along, letting his eyes drift over the various displays. It reminds him a bit of the day Jaskier ambushed him. Warm sun, kind people, a market. 

Nothing stands out to him. It is all too shoddy, or too expensive. He comes across a paper merchant right at the end, and pauses. Perhaps he could gift Jaskier with some paper. He could probably use something to write all his compositions on. 

He leans forward to get a better look at cost and quality, and something flickers in his peripheral vision. He turns his head and notices a piece of parchment nailed to a notice board at the end of the row. There’s something drawn on it, and Geralt gets an uneasy sensation in his gut.

He eases away from the paper merchant’s stall, going to investigate. He flattens the parchment against the board so he can read it properly. The uneasy feeling quickly turns to panic.

It’s a wanted poster. Jaskier’s name is written in bold lettering across the bottom. The drawing is clearly of Jaskier, even if there’s something off about the cheeks. Granted, only those who know how to read will know the name, but there’s no mistaking the drawing for anyone else.

Geralt has never run so fast in his life. Not even when he was being pursued by a rabid selkimore. The town isn’t safe. All it takes is one person recognizing Jaskier, and the guards will be on them.

The tavern looms in his sight. He sucks in a breath of relief when he sees that no guards are swarming the place.

He makes a deliberate effort to slow down. It won’t do for him to go bursting in like a madman. It would only draw attention. So as calmly as he can, he takes the steps up to the entrance of the tavern.

He spots Jaskier immediately. Of course, he’s in the thick of things. He’s settled himself at a center table, and he has a hand of cards. Three other men are settled around the table ith cards as well, looking very irritated by the amount of coin in front of Jaskier.

Geralt claps his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, and leans in. He keeps his voice low, but works to fill it with the urgency it requires.

“We have to go.”

Jaskier’s head swivels to look at him, “What? Why?”

“Now.”

“Just let me finish my hand.” Jaskier dimisses, already turning back around.

“Julian.” Geralt hisses, “We need to go.”

The proper name is what does it. No one but Jaskier’s mother calls him that anymore. Geralt can see the minute it registers with Jaskier just how serious it is. His eyes widen, and his lips go white from being pressed so tightly together.

He turns back to the other men with a genial smile, and swipes his collection of coins into his bag.

“I’m afraid there isn’t a monster here as we thought. My companion here is insisting we continue on our way. Thank you for the game.”

Jaskier rises clumsily to his feet, picks up his lute, and then follows in Geralt’s wake. They leave the tavern without anyone stopping them, and it feels like a miracle to Geralt.

“What happened?” Jaskier whispers as Geralt leads the way to Roach.

“Wanted poster. Your face is everywhere.” Geralt responds, and notices another one tacked to the church just down the way.

“Shit.” Jaskier hisses, picking up his pace to better match Geralt’s.

They move quickly, and silently. They keep their heads down, hoping to make it to Roach. Even though Geralt’s life has never worked the way he’s wanted it, he keeps telling himself that once they reach Roach, everything will be fine.

He repeats it like a mantra. _Just get to Roach. Just get to Roach. Just get to Roach. Roach. Roach. IT’ll a ll be fine, we just need Roach._

They make it to Roach without being stopped, and Geralt unties her reins from the post as Jaskier straps his lute and bag back into place.

Geralt mounts up, and helps Jaskier up behind him. Jaskier clings to his back so tightly that Geralt is sure that any normal human would have trouble breathing against it.

He wheels Roach around, kicking her into a gallop. The stick to the unoccupied section of town, where fields run up against the houses. They can’t afford to backtrack through the woods. So they head in the direction they were going, trying to stay out of sight.

The woods grow closer with each pound of Roach’s hooves. If they can just make it there without the guard noticing, then they’ll be safe. Geralt knows how to make them untrackable.

They have to get there first.

He can hear Jaskier’s heart pounding in his chest, and feel the nervous exhilations against his chest. Geralt can’t comfort him. Not now. Maybe when they make it through all of this, tonight, when things are safe again, he can. Here, though, he can’t. He needs every one of his instincts.

They’re close enough to the woods that they can see individual trees. Just a bit farther.

Their luck runs out.

Like a swarm of ants, guards pour out of the town, coming between them and their escape.Geralt pulls Roach up short, and dismounts. He draws his sword, and faces them down. The promise he made to himself months ago at the inn comes back to him. He won’t let Jaskier get hurt.

“Jaskier.” he says softly.

“Yeah?”

“If you see a chance to run, don’t wait for me.”

“You have to be kidding,” Jaskier says indignantly, “I can’t just…”

“You can, and you will.” Geralt growls.

The guards advance on him. Judging by the mustard colors mixed into some of the uniforms, the King had sent his own men out to make sure the job would get done if need be. 

Geralt breathes, watching. He understands now, why the mutagens dull emotions. He’s barely sacred of the beasts of the world after so long fighting them. He knows, though, that if he weren’t so easily able to tuck his emotions away he would be overwhelmed with worry for Jaskier.

The first guard swings, and Geralt dodges neatly. He uses the guard’s momentum to slash him. The air fills with the metallic scent of blood.

The guards don’t hold back then. Geralt loses himself in the dance. Swing, duck, parry, slash, stab. He takes no pleasure in it, but he can’t leave any of them standing to try to get at Jaskier.

The last man falls. Geralt absently notices a pain in his side. His hands come away bloody. What’s another scar, protecting someone you care about?

“Butcher!” a woman shrieks.

Geralt ignores her. He makes for the trees. 

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder. He looks up. It’s Jaskier, still mounted on Roach.

“I told you to go.” Geralt growls.

“I came back.” Jaskier answers simply, and offers his hand.

Geralt mounts Roach with a hiss, the movement tugging at the wound in his side. He realizes, dazedly, that he’s mounted behind Jaskier. He’s in no mood to argue, however. He slumps against Jaskier, and breathes. He can already feel his skin knitting itself back together. For once his injury hadn’t been monster inflicted, and it will heal fast. Doesn’t make it comfortable.

They ride until dark. Geralt feels much better by the time they stop. His wound has scabbed over, and is healing. He dismounts Roach, and Jaskier follows.

Then Jaskier is in his space. His arms wrap tight around Geralt’s waist, regardless of the wound in his side.

“Fuck.” Jaskier says softly.

“What?”

“You have got to stop being so bloody heroic all the time, my heart can’t take it.”


	7. Chapter 7

They arrive in Mivinsk in early morning. The mist is still lifting as they ride in. After months of sneaking and danger, Jaskier is finally safe. This kingdom has no treaty with the central kingdom of the allies. They are under no obligation to turn Jaskier in now that he is within their borders.

They stand together in the town courtyard, gazing around at the still dark buildings.

“We made it.” Jaskier breathes, and drags a hand through his hair, “Fuck. I can’t wait to be able to make proper money again. I need new clothes.”

Geralt snorts. Leave it to Jaskier to be relieved about clothes and not his life.

“Thank you, Geralt. I would be dead without you.”

“Try not to piss off anymore kings.” 

Jaskier smiles, “No promises, dear heart. Bards do get into quite a lot of mischief.”

Geralt smiles back. He thought it would be harder, leaving Jaskier here. He can feel the pain trying to lodge itself under his breastbone, but like everything else it is muted. He can ignore it easily, in favor of being glad Jasker is still around to create and play.

“Then at least make sure they aren’t murderous first.”

“Now that I can do,” Jaskier agrees, “I’m sorry I can’t pay you.”

Geralt grunts. “You earned most of the coin we shared while travelling. Your debt is paid.”

“Think we’ll meet again?”

Geralt just grunts again, and mounts Roach. Jaskier raises his hand in goodbye, Geralt nods. Then he rides out. Off to his next job.

*

He hears Toss a Coin for the first time in Redania. At first, he thinks he misheard. No way is there a song written about him.

Then he hears it again near the Cintran border. It is definitely about him.

The third time he hears it, he knows it was written by Jaskier. The details line up too well for it to be by anyone else.

He carries the tune with him. Like the bracelet, it becomes another reminder.

*

He’s near Oxenfurt. Winter is fast approaching, but he can’t really bring himself to go home. Kaer Morhen seems too lonely, even with his brothers there.

A noise catches his attention. The second time he hears it, he realizes someone is calling his name. 

He turns. There’s a figure rushing towards him out of the crowds near the university. There’s something familiar about the way it moves.

The figure draws closer, and recognition dawns. It’s Jaskier.

“Jaskier?”

“I’ve been chasing you for blocks!” Jaskier says indignantly as he approaches.

They stand for a moment, awkward, unsure.

“Did you write Toss a Coin?” Geralt demands, for lack of anything else to say.

“I did! Did you like it?”

“That’s not how it happened.”

“Yes well. You’ll have plenty of time to correct me while we ride.”

“What do you mean while _we_ ride?” Geralt asks.

“You, Geralt of Rivia, are my muse. I have single handedly stopped the Butcher of Blaviken nickname in its tracks. I am not leaving such inspiration again.”

Geralt smiles a little, despite himself. Then Jaskier leans up, and kisses him firm on the mouth.

Not leaving again seems an excellent form of payment for a job well done.


End file.
